In Lilac
by Mellifluousness
Summary: There's a change in the air around dawn, you know. It's dangerous, and I pushed it staying out that late, but it was all for the best. Otherwise, I wouldn't have found the building, I wouldn't have found the dye, and I wouldn't have been able to teach a beast how to tell stories in lilac. Oneshot.


**A/N: Greetings, Internet! Mellifluousness here, with a little oneshot to prove I'm not dead. Just having trouble, and lots of it. -_- My dear friend xoxLEXIxox suggested I write something different to help, and here you have the result. The title page is on my deviantART, which is linked to on my profile, and has some more information on this. Otherwise, enjoy.**

There's a change in the air around dawn, you know. You can smell it, how the grass tenses up and the sky begins to burn, the clouds turning pink on their undersides. Your skin prickles, like, and your hair stands on end, and you can't help but look up and see the horizon all purple and weird-looking. I've still got both my eyes, lucky me, so I see that well. It's a windy night, and the trees all hiss like they're scared as their tops sway back and forth, silhouettes against the sky. There are lots of stars out here. That's why I like the surface. I'm standing here on the edge of the forest, the hills to my back – lush and green now it's the wet season and it's been raining – and the first rays of the sun creeping up over the treetops. It's time to go find some shelter, and the forest's too sparse for that. There's probably a good cave or two in the hills, so I turn back around, since I was heading that way before dawn started coming, and start to walk. There's a little change in the air again that tells you where the threshold between forest and hill is. I hop up the blocks pretty easily as the slope climbs, blessed as I am with my legs intact, and soon I'm standing on the crest of the hill, overlooking the biome for a good few world chunks in all directions. Low hills, these, not the big insane kind with all the cliffs and floating islands and things. Nothing more than twenty, thirty blocks tall; finding a cave might be harder than I thought. I start heading down again, long grass brushing my knees, wondering where all the mobs are around here. There's no-one in sight, quiet, peaceful, nothing but the hissing grass and trees. Kind of eerie, though, when you run into a biome like that. It's like you're the only thing in the world.

I walk for around half an hour, every minute that passes making me more aware of the rising sun. Not a cave, dip or dungeon in sight; I knew I shouldn't have come this far. I'm really pushing it, now, the sky all orange and pink and light blue, dawn creeping along the curvature of it. The sun's huge and fat whenever I look over my shoulder, gloating bloated right there on the trees. My skin prickles, starting to hurt. Soon I'm going to start burning.

Hey, is that a glimpse of stone-grey against that hillside? Finally! I break into a run, thanking Herobrine I can still do that, and race down the mound until I skid to a halt at its foot. Built into the next hill is… not a cave, to be sure. It's a building of cobblestone and stone brick, overgrown with moss and hanging vines, blocks crumbling and missing bits. The roof has a steep slope and it's longer than it is wide, maybe ten by five blocks. Three blocks tall, plus the roof. The door is hanging on its hinges, a dark wood, probably spruce. A building, out here? There are no Minecrafter villages for biomes in this wilderness! Weird, that they'd just leave this to rot all the way out here.

Then again, I got left to rot too.

I climb the slope to the door and yank on it, splinters digging into the tough green hide of my palms. Doesn't hurt much, my skin's thick enough. The hinges groan, it inches a little way open and I grunt with exertion. I have to release it, though, panting a little from that. My arms aren't terribly strong. I heave again, and again, and finally the bloody thing is open wide enough that I can slip inside. I tug it back a little, just in case, and turn to survey the building. Sheesh, it looks a lot bigger inside than it does out, the kind of place where you sneak in case you dredge up cave noise from the darkness. It has no windows and is almost pitch black, but my red eyes are made for dark spaces. The tiny rays of light filtering in through the cracks in the walls are more than enough to see by. It looks like there were once rows of wooden seats here, but now there are only a few old things scattered about and half-rotted. At the far end is a little raised platform about half a block high, which I think is about where the building goes into the hillside. There are carvings that may once have been intricate along the base of the platform and in places along the walls, but they're weathered now and a fine layer of dust accompanies the moss and vines everywhere. It's as good a place as any to stay the day.

I start heading towards the back since there are less cracks there, dodging expanding beams of sunlight. I can practically _feel _the place lighting up. As I near the raised platform, however, I notice a few clay pots clustered together in the corner; curious, I vault up onto the stand and crouch near the things to inspect them. They're full of dyes in every colour, undulled by time and, when I dip a finger in them, still liquid or paste as they should be. Huh. Something about them looks familiar, and it pulls what's left of my lips into a smile. I examine my rigid, claw-like fingertips; I managed to make a watery lilac on their very ends, the rose-red, lapis-blue and bonemeal-white remaining nearer the joint. I always liked lilac. A flick of my hand to try get it off sends a splatter of dye upwards, leaving a streak across the back wall of the building; my eyes follow it, noting the pattern it makes on the ancient cobblestone. I glance between dyes and wall a couple of times before standing up and, hesitantly, drawing two tracks as high up the wall as I can reach. Red and blue. They go down a little way, running parallel, before joining to make a deep, rich purple. They follow the new colour a short way, over bumps, around cracks, but slowly they fade out and are gone. The purple is left alone until a white track joins it, coming suddenly out of the mosses; they run side by side, closer and closer, until they make lilac together. They will never become only purple or only white again. Such a nice colour, together. It makes me smile. They go far, forming beautiful shapes, and whenever they begin to fade I take a little more white and a little more purple and they are vibrant again, though just a little different. Sweeping strokes, quick lines, strange and bizarre shapes, over the occasional bump and not always going where they want to go, but damned if they're not going to come back to the right path. They meet as many other colours as I can mix, each leaving a bit of a mark, each helping form their shapes and strokes and lines. Not always for the better, but they make do. They always make do.

You know, chartreuse is an ugly colour.

Somehow I manage to mix it. It's there too, next to them. On another finger. Another. Another. Then it's on all of my fingers except the one coated in lilac, surrounding them. Closer and closer, however they try to avoid it. It's taking over the other colours, leaving them marred, covering the cobbles and tearing through the moss and filling in the cracks. But the lilac keeps going. One of my fingers is getting a little whiter, the other a little purpler, and soon however close the two separate lilacs stick there's a definite line between them. They try crossing over, joining again to make that one perfect tone, but they still stay dark lilac and light lilac, and the chartreuse is still on all sides.

Then the light lilac runs out.

The dark lilac is left with naught but the chartreuse all around it. It runs still, trying its hardest, trying to make do, but the bumps take more out of it and the moss is harder to navigate and the chartreuse has taken the white into it and never spat it out. Dark lilac looks smaller, frailer, watery. The chartreuse is all around it.

It's swallowed up.

Someone gasps.

I whip around, eyes wide, to see a Minecrafter standing in the doorway, casting a long shadow up what's left of the aisle and conveniently blocking the sun with its head. A torch blazes in its hand, casting dancing light on the ruined seats. This place looks even worse in true light. The thing's staring not at me, but past me, and I crane my neck to realise it's gawking at my painting. Wow, it covers the whole wall. A great mess of colours and streaks.

By the Nether, it's beautiful.

"Did… did you do that?" the Minecrafter stammers, dark eyes huge. Its gaze flicks to my hands, and I notice I'm up to the elbows in rainbows.

"Yeah," I growl, eyeing it warily. Then I realise it can't hear me, and just nod. Bloody things, deaf to mobs.

"It's… beautiful," it says. It can't be very old, maybe a young adult. It takes a tentative step forward, then stops and asks, "Could you… teach me how to do that?"

I think for a moment. There's no sword attached to its belt, no pickaxe on its back, not even a hatchet or bag in sight. Did it come all the way out here with no equipment? Must be young. And stupid.

Can't hurt to try. I beckon it forward, turning back to look up at my wall for a moment, and then gather up the pots and shift them to one of the old structure's side walls. Thankfully, it shuts the door behind it before creeping towards me. It's scared of me. Good, the bugger has _some _sense. I inspect the wall, looking for a good place to start, as it makes its careful approach, and finally when it's beside me I give it a good once-over. Thing looks like it's trying not to gag, and that makes me smirk a little.

I take its wrist as gently as I can and extend its index and middle fingers, dipping them once in the blue, once in the red, and once in the white. I do the same myself.

We begin to trace a story on the walls, in lilac.


End file.
